


the dying of the light

by lupescx



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Prison, Telepathy, Unreliable Narrator, lots of references to past companions, she does not have a good time, the Doctor is in prison, the master is up to something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27632762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lupescx/pseuds/lupescx
Summary: It's the slow disintegration of a Time Lord. In prison, the Doctor drifts and her mind dissolves. Only the voices of the dead keep her company--oh, and the Master.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 55





	the dying of the light

Sitting alone in the dark, the Doctor presses her back to the hard wall behind her. Arms curled around herself, shivering slightly in the cold. Temperature doesn’t usually affect her, but all of her usual tolerances and defenses have been lowered. She feels sick. More than that, her skin feels sensitive in a way it shouldn’t. It’s uncomfortable and raw and her clothes are like sandpaper.

An oppressive force is pushing against her mind, just enough to scrape away at the mental barriers she’s tried so hard to maintain. She suspects that’s the nature of the cell—everything is designed to whittle her mind and body into a state of vulnerability. She already feels weak and it’s been... how long? Hours? Days? Maybe a month. She can’t remember moving away from the wall since she first slid down it, dejected—so it can’t have been too much time.

There’s no doors. Nothing in the room. She thinks she understands. No need to waste resources on a prisoner. She’s in a stasis chamber—biologically sustained until she leaves. And what had they said? Life sentence? An eternity of this. She might as well be dead.

It’s with deep bitterness that she remembers her confession dial. Billions of years of repetition and death and punishment and for what? Clara died anyways. Gallifrey was still destroyed. She’s in prison. And the Master—

Dead. The Doctor forces herself to complete the sentence. There’s nowhere to run. She might as well face the consequences. Gallifrey’s gone. He’s gone. And she has all of time to think about who she is—or she would, if thinking didn’t hurt so much. Sandpaper on her skin and her mind. The slow disintegration of a Time Lord. Rubbing away at her identity. She’s the Doctor. She’ll escape. She has to and she will. Her friends need her.

_No, they don’t. They’re better off without you._

Maybe that’s true. A long list of names emerges from the dark to remind her of everyone she’s lost. How many of them were her fault? All of them, in some way. Unable and unwilling to shift her mind to something less painful, she lets their loss simmer at the surface.

_Not everyone died,_ she reminds herself weakly, the barest of defense from her guilt.

Rose?

_Safe. Alive._

Martha?

_Traumatized, but alive._

Donna?

_Alive._

Memories intact?

_...alive._

Amy?

_...Dead._

Rory?

_...Dead._

Clara?

She sees a raven, and then a body. So much more than that. Gone.

_...Dead._

Bill?

Images of Cybermen fill her mind and she presses her palms to her eyes. _Stop,_ she thinks, and it hurts and it hurts and it will never end.

Nardole?

_...Dead? Yeah._

Missy?

Standing in a graveyard, hands outstretched. Facing each other on a Mondasian colony ship. A cold refusal and all the pain that followed. Her closest, most impressive friend, who she would have loved and cherished forever if only she’d been given the chance. And she was—

_Dead._

The Doctor feels the word in her mind but it’s not her voice. A new presence. It takes a moment, the stasis field impairing her reaction time, but realization dawns. She blinks, and then he’s there.

_Hello, love. Having fun?_

No, she thinks blankly. He couldn’t be here. Not even in her mind. He’s—

_Let me guess. Dead?_

She shakes her head.

_You’re not real._

The flashing of a grin, sharp and borderline maniacal.

_If it helps, you can think that._

For the first time, the Doctor speaks out loud. “Leave me alone,”

It shocks her how hoarse she sounds. Like it’s been months since she last spoke. It doesn’t feel like it has, but how would she know?

_Stasis cell, hm? Probably longer. You’ve been cycling that list for a while._

There’s disdain in his voice, but it doesn’t seem directed at her. “Have I? How long have you been watching?”

A shrug. _Idly? A few weeks. Watching you spin has been interesting._

“Spin...”

_Spiraling, love. Won’t be long until you can barely think at all. Just that constant, aching pressure._

“How are you here?” she murmurs, vaguely wishing she had more energy. Then at least she could be angry. Instead, all she can manage is a tired and hollow resignation.

_Alive? Not telling. In your head? Well, you left the door open._

“Did not...” she trails off. Did she? That hadn’t been intentional.

_You did. In fact, you invited me. I felt you from across the universe. Calling out. Don’t think you even realized it._

She scowls. “So what, you’re here to... gloat? Is that what this is?”

_No, Doctor._

Suddenly, she feels a hand trace down her arm. She shudders, and looks to her left. There, in the darkness, she sees his outline. His fingers close around her wrist, and for a moment, it’s like he’s actually there.

“Master,”

Upon naming him, he shivers. His hand moves to brush her hair back, and she sighs into the touch, however unreal. Gently, he scratches the side of her head. It’s the most comfort she’s experienced in a very long time and she opens her mouth to protest when he stops.

_My, you are a mess._

Carefully, he takes her face in his hands and turns her to look into his eyes. They glint with the smallest sliver of light, and she doesn’t think it’s coming from her end of the connection.

_Doctor, I’m here because you need me._

She blinks, absorbed by the darkness of his eyes. “And you’re going to...?”

Abruptly, he lets go of her face.

_You’ll see. Can’t give away everything, can I?_

“Typical,” she scoffs. There’s another touch against her shoulder, feather-light, and then he’s gone.

Left alone in the room, the forces feel more oppressive than ever. Resuming the grind against her brain. Disturbing her skin. Lowering her immune system. The chill in the air is heightened, and she resumes shivering. There’s no visible vents, but the cold is sterile, medical. Like a hospital. Clues to where she is? It ends there.

Does she even care? If she had a location it wouldn’t matter. Still trapped in this cell, slowly eating away at her sense of self. If the Master was telling the truth then she’d been here a lot longer than she anticipated. The constant, gnawing pressure scrambling her grasp on time. Cycling. Spinning. Spiraling. Endlessly into the vortex, floating in a vacuum.

The Time Lords had a specific brand of torture if they wanted information. She experienced a form of it firsthand. In her case, time progressed normally, however agonizing and confusing it passed for her. There had been others. Tricked into imprisonment within their own mind. Induced into a million years of mental confinement but barely five minutes passing real-time. Easy for the outsider, she thinks bitterly.

She remembers a wall. Something about a bird. A mountain? And Clara. Someone to pull her from the deepest pit of despair. The Doctor doesn’t have anybody to hold onto now. No one to fight for. It’s all slipping, and without the Master’s voice to offer any semblance of grounding she drifts back into oblivion.

. . .

An intangible amount of time passes before her eyes open again. It’s not sleeping. Her captors have denied her that privilege, the telepathic field forcing her awake, on the cusp of rest but never quite reaching peace. She’s numb enough that the constant, quiet scroll of thoughts idling in her mind don’t disturb the uneasy armistice she’s achieved with the force. Names of the dead. Planets she’s visited. The first thousand digits of pi, which quickly devolved into random strings of meaningless numbers. It’s all decompensating in her brain.

Eventually it cycles back to the beginning.

Rory. _Dead._

Amy. _Dead._

Clara. _Dead._

Bill. _Dead._

Missy—

_This again?_

The Doctor blinks. “You’ve been rather quiet,” she rasps.

_Been busy._

“Mm. Burn any cities?”

A caustic laugh echoes in her mind.

_Wouldn’t you like to know?_

“I don’t really care,” she says, and she’s almost surprised that she doesn’t have to feign disinterest. On a better day she might feel concerned about that. She could really use a better day.

_No? You don’t want to know what I’ve been doing?_

The Doctor lets her head fall back against the wall, staring upwards. “Go away.”

_You’d rather be alone?_

Hands cover her own and suddenly he’s in front of her. Eyes glinting in the darkness. He’s not actually there, she knows, but she can feel his warmth. “Where are you?”

She tries to peer into his side of the connection but he blocks her.

_Sorry love, no peeking._

“Not much use then, are you?” she slides her hands out of his grasp and up to her chest. Frustrated, she turns away.

He ponders for a moment.

_You don’t know why you’re here. They didn’t tell you._

Hesitant, she nods. “Do you?”

Silence, and then,

_No, but I’ve been trying to find out. No one seems to know where you are._

Something in her snaps. “It’s life sentence. Did you know that? Here, forever. Spinning. Spiraling. Whatever. Isn’t this everything you wanted? A universe, free from the Doctor. Well. Congratulations. You win.”

He stares at her and she meets his gaze.

_That’s not what I want._

His hands reclaim hers. Careful in the way he holds them. She sighs.

“So? What do you want?”

_You’ll find out. Eventually._

Then he’s gone. Again.

. . .

Quiet ensues for an unbearable and indeterminable amount of time. It’s impossible to measure when she last saw the Master, but somewhere in her brain offers the vague suggestion of _weeks._

The Doctor understands what’s happening. Her active monologue is a whisper under the radar of the stasis field. It saps her energy. Wears away at her conscious. This isn’t a place people are supposed to survive—not in any way that matters, at least. It may sustain her life, but beyond that everything begins to dissolve.

Distantly, she wonders what’s become of her friends. They probably assume she’s dead. Well, it’s not too far from the truth. Thinking is a heavy burden, and trying to remember them is like hitting her head on the glass of an aquarium. Their voices sound warbled, echoing on the other side. Underwater. Free-fall. Mind-numbing and desperate. Holding onto their faces is a challenge. Drowning, forced to submerge. It’s easier not to struggle. She lets their names slip through her fingers and inhales. Equilibrium at last.

Free from thought. Free from pain. She closes her eyes and pretends she isn’t suffering, that she isn’t shivering and that this state of dissociation passes for sleep. The pressure against her mind is a dull throbbing, suppressing the frantic inner voices telling her to _wake up, this isn’t good Doctor, you can’t give in like this._

_And why not?_

Everything aches. Why shouldn’t she drift? Surely she’s allowed to dream. It’s far from bliss but it’s the closest to peace she’s had in... a very long time. System shut-down. Drifting, drifting into the dark and endless night. Scraps of poetry and words float to the surface.

_Do not go gentle into that good night._

She can’t remember the rest of it, or who wrote it. One final, unsuccessful sweep for recognition and she lets them recede.

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

The Doctor’s eyes open. Sitting next to her, she sees him. Drowsily, she murmurs, “Koschei?”

He looks taken aback. Shocked, even. She hasn’t spoken that name in centuries. He probably hasn’t heard it in longer.

She winces. “Sorry,”

Quickly recovering, the Master reaches out a hand to touch her jaw. He turns her face towards him, and then his fingers move to the pulse on her neck.

Her heartbeats are slow, much slower than they should be. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think she were dying. But that’s impossible here. Maybe more of a... deactivation. A hibernation, even, she thinks bitterly. _Going dormant._

_Oh, Doctor. What have you gotten yourself into?_

“I don’t feel good,” she admits, and he withdraws his hand.

_I know. I feel it. Just because you can’t see where I am doesn’t mean you aren’t affecting me._

“You could close the connection,” she whispers, because something dark and despairing is rising inside of her. “Let me fade away. It might be easier,”

That stirs a reaction.

_Easier? Oh no, Doctor. Why should it be easy for me? It isn’t for you. We’re bound, like it or not. If you wanted easy you should have killed us both on Gallifrey._

“Gallifrey...”

Smoke spiraling in a burning sky. A city charred, desolate. Her feet step over red soil and into the citadel and she’s back in the Matrix chamber. So much lost. Redacted memories and for what? Here, she crumbles anyways. Drifting, drifting. All those faces, too many unrecognizable and irrecoverable. Long idle thoughts resurface and her head begins to pound.

_Doctor. Stop it. Come back to me._

His voice through the mist. It’s not enough to part the rising fog, clouding her mind with the cloying ash of her home planet. Not her home, anymore. Never was? Burning, drifting, falling. All the same.

_Doctor. Doctor!_

_Theta._

Her attention snaps to him. She blinks, and the smoke clears. He looks alarmed, and she realizes his hands are curled around her wrists. Shaken, she tries to pull them away but he doesn’t relent.

_Is it like that every time?_

“I try not to think about it,” she answers truthfully. “Do you?”

... _Constantly._

Barely contained rage bleeds out of the word. She recoils, still reeling from the intensity of the vision. At her reaction, he smooths the tension between them, letting the anger subside.

Looking away, the Doctor murmurs, “Maybe we should talk about it,”

He laughs bitterly.

_You’re in no condition to do that._

“Yeah,” she concedes, “you’re probably right.”

_Later._

She doesn’t respond, trying unsuccessfully to hide her thoughts. There won’t be a later. This is it. She’s barely coherent as it is—how much longer before she’s worn down completely? It should be easy to conceal the parts of her mind she doesn’t want him to see, but her barriers are already so weak, he could see anything if he were to go looking. She knows he’s curious.

_I could... but I won’t._

“Why not?” she meets his eyes, watches them narrow at her words. “Might be your only chance. Nothing’s stopped you before,”

Quiet for a moment, he observes her. His fingers drum a pattern across his leg and he shakes his head.

_This isn’t the end, Doctor. Don’t forget that._

And she’s alone.

. . .

The Master’s words repeat in her head. This isn’t the end? It sure feels like it. For any hope of freedom, at least. She has a long, cold eternity ahead of her. Already, it’s impossible to determine how much time she’s spent imprisoned.

_What happened to hope?_ A small part of her asks desperately and she has no answer. Unable to stop thinking and too tired to control her thoughts, the Doctor has taken to letting the words of old friends play in her mind. Voices long silent echo in place of her own monologue, and she wishes they were a solace but instead they ache, reminding her of everyone she lost to get here. She can’t stop, she wants to, she doesn’t deserve to forget she must remember even as sanity dwindles. Perhaps this is the sign? When the voices of the dead outnumber her own.

_Doctor, I’m scared._

She’s heard that many times. Far too many left in her responsibility. Whose voice is that?

_Amelia Pond._ And what had she said in reply? _Course you’re scared, you’re dying. Shut up._

If Amy could see her now. Any of them. All so brave, all gone. Painful to think about and all she can think about. Her head pounds.

_I spent a lot of time with you thinking I was second best. But you know what? I am good._

_Martha Jones._ Brilliant, bright, and deserving of so much more. _I’m sorry,_ the Doctor thinks, a quiet whisper of guilt—words she should have said but never will.

_I was gonna be with you forever._

What had she done with _Donna Noble?_

_You took away her memories. How does it feel now?_

Visions of the Matrix chamber. Smoke sticking to her clothes, her world burning and burning and she has lost so much.

_Have you got family?_

_Yaz? Yasmin Khan. Right?_ Beyond the glass, face shimmering with concern. Always at arms length. Too good to travel with. Better off at home.

_Lost them a long time ago._

Their voices in her head, the slightest catch that keeps her from falling into the void. She lets it cycle because as long as she does, she can’t forget them. They’re all she has left, however much it hurts.

. . .

Time passes. The dead speak and the Doctor loses the will to respond. Chattering away, she’s only the stage and the play never ends. Mindlessly, endlessly, drowning in the sea of static she’s enabled. Watching the events from the audience. She’s the spectator of a show she used to direct, and she no longer cares what happens to the characters.

The pain is getting worse. Vague memories of dream crabs stir up the delirious hope that maybe she’s sleeping. She might wake up soon. That would be nice.

_Or you die._

Crabs infiltrating her brain. Slow death—ice cream pains. Not too bad. She wish they’d been a bit more creative about it.

_Not ice cream pains._

Right, this is worse. Not dreaming. This is real, it has to be. It hurts too much to be anything else.

So she drifts, dreamlessly. Further into space. Deeper into the ocean. So much hidden in the dark—she closes her eyes to all of it.

Something sharp and violent blooms in her mind. She gasps, pushes a shaky hand up to her temple. An alarm sounds from far away and her vision fills with dark red. It’s agonizing, rendering her incapable of speech or thought except for a desperate plea to _stop._

Finally, after several maybe minutes—feels like hours—the pain stops and the alarms subside. Relieved, the Doctor slumps back against the wall and shivers. Holding back a sob, she digs her palms into her eyes and feels the tension against her skull. It doesn’t help the feeling that her mind has just been torn open but it does ground her a little.

Shakily, she places her arms back around her legs and pulls them tight to her chest. Scattered, barely coherent, she reaches out.

_Contact._

Nothing.

_Contact._

Silence.

_Contact._

A lonely satellite, spun out of orbit. Blinking into the void. No response.

_Contact._

Hitting her head against the aquarium glass, over and over again in the distant hope that one day it might break.

_Contact._

Quiet frequencies reaching everyone and no one.

_Contact._

_Contact._

_Contact._

_. . ._

_I’m here._

An answer. Blearily, the Doctor opens her eyes. At some point she must have started crying because they’re blurry with tears.

“Where were you?” her voice cracks. “I called for you.”

The Master kneels next to her. She can’t see his face very well in the dark, but he looks agitated.

_I know. I heard you. I was... preoccupied._

“I thought you left me,” she whispers, “something happened, in the prison. An alarm. Didn’t feel good,”

He sucks in a breath.

_I felt it. It’s supposed to keep prisoners indisposed, in case there’s an intrusion. That’s my guess._

There’s something veiled in his words that she doesn’t have the energy or clarity to decipher. She pushes it aside and lets him take her hands. Carefully, he smooths his thumbs over her skin and she leans into the comfort.

_Can I help?_

She nods, and he takes back a hand to wrap it around her shoulder. There’s heat from his end of the connection and she presses herself closer to combat the constant chill of the air. He’s not actually here but in the darkness of her cell, it doesn’t really matter.

Sensing she’s cold, he expands the connection and suddenly his warmth encompasses her. For the first time since she arrived, she stops shivering.

With his free hand, the Master reaches up to her temple. He doesn’t technically need to since he’s already in her head, but he pauses, giving her the chance to deny him. Nodding slightly, she consents.

The border between her mind and his mind diminishes. No longer an observer, he sifts through her thoughts quietly to avoid alerting the stasis field. With gentle precision, more gentle than he’s been in lifetimes, he silences some of the turbulence and eases the pain left by the alarm. Like cool water pouring over a wound, soothing the tension and inflammation.

_This won’t last. Not completely._

“I know,” she replies, “it’s okay. Thank you.”

A ripple of surprise at being thanked, quickly masked. She feels him glance over all of her recent thoughts, the voices of past companions and the cycle they spin in. The torment and guilt swirling around each of them.

_I can’t do much for this without being there._

He sounds regretful.

“Not your fault,” she murmurs, “they’re more background music than anything.”

His mind starts to withdraw but she pulls him back. He watches her cautiously as she settles deeper into his embrace.

“Stay,” she says, “please?”

Hesitating, he idles in her thoughts before conceding. He edges away from her memories and curls closer to her.

_Do you want to be awake?_

“Not really,” she closes her eyes. It doesn’t matter how long they’re shut. Sleep will never come.

_I can change that. If you’d like._

“Yes,” she answers immediately, “if you could.”

_Okay. Lie down._

Shifting away from him, she lowers herself to the floor and faces the interior of the room. The Master watches her pensively, waiting for her to settle. He presses his fingers to her forehead, sighs, and says:

_Sleep, Doctor._

Then she’s gone.

. . .

From endless drifting to endless sleep. Somehow he bypassed the force grinding down on her barriers, pushing her into a dreamless state. It’s not particularly good rest—still disturbed by the field and still assuming a slight level of consciousness. But she’s not awake. She doesn’t have to live the passing of time. So she sinks into the void and distantly hopes to never wake up.

_Quiet._

. . .

Something yanks her out of the darkness. The Doctor shakes her head and forces herself into a sitting position.

“What’s happening?” she mumbles, delirious. Reluctantly, she opens her eyes. She can’t see him, but the Master is there.

_You need to get up._

There’s urgency in his voice. That restores some of her energy. She stretches her legs out in front of her to work out some of the stiffness.

“You want me to stand?” she braces her hands on the floor. Been a while since she’s done that.

_If you can._

“Okay,”

With considerable effort, she manages to slide up the wall onto her feet. Unsteady, she leans against it for support. “What now?”

_Brace yourself._

There’s a flash, a painful amount of white light, and then she’s falling.

He catches her.

The Doctor stares in disbelief, not fully comprehending the situation. “You’re here,”

“Yes,” the Master says, “and we need to leave.”

He speaks and it’s not just his voice in her head. A wave of emotion dizzies her and the brightness of the lights is overwhelming. She stumbles and he tightens his grasp.

“Can you walk?”

Regretfully, she shakes her head—a poor decision, because her head is swimming. “I don’t think so,”

He assesses her, and she feels uncomfortably weak. After so much time in the dark and stillness, remaining upright is a challenge. He seems to come to a determination.

“Okay, don’t protest, we don’t have much time.” His hand slides around her back and before she can say anything he lifts up her legs to carry her.

She _does_ want to protest, she’s not used to so much touch and especially not like this. But the room is still spinning and she can barely keep her eyes open so she silences the indignation and resigns herself to his grasp.

Holding her closely, the Master strides out of the room and into a hallway. The lights are dimmer here and looking down the path she realizes there’s a trail of bodies.

_Oh._

“Don’t worry about them,” he says, and there’s really no other option so she just closes her eyes and loops her arms around his neck.

Nobody intervenes as the Master takes her back to what she hopes is his TARDIS. Of course he would be thorough. Exhausted, she realizes coldly that she doesn’t care.

Her eyes stay shut all the way until they pass through a door and familiar energy washes over her. It’s not her ship but it’s close enough that finally, her head begins to clear.

He sets her down on a sofa in the console room, seemingly a remnant from his time on Earth. The Doctor pushes herself to a sitting position as he rushes around the console, setting them into flight. She feels them spin into the vortex, then drift to a stop somewhere in space.

Quiet. The Master stares at one of the monitors, taps a rhythm on the control board, and then glances back at her. She pulls her legs to her chest and he sighs, walking to sit next to her.

Out of the stasis cell, it’s easier to think but the Doctor’s mind is still scattered. Everything aches. Forming a cohesive sentence takes more effort than she wants to admit.

“Why would you...” she trails off.

He tilts his head. “Save you?”

She nods.

Silent for a moment, he regards her. She takes the time to absorb his appearance. More ragged than she expected. Shadows under his dark eyes, a weariness replacing the manic anger she associated with this face. He looks as tired as she feels.

“Do you know,” he begins, “how long you were imprisoned in that cell?”

She hesitates. “No,”

“Four years.”

Ice in her chest, a sudden pit and she remembers falling. Drifting. Smoke in her clothes. She takes a deep breath, and the wreckage of her mind makes sense.

“Didn’t feel like that long,” she murmurs, assessing the damage now that there’s no malicious force to prevent her. “Or maybe longer. I don’t know,”

“That much time would have destroyed a lesser telepath,”

The darkness, chiseling away at her identity. Numbing her to hope. Her only anchor the person sitting in front of her. “That doesn’t answer why you came for me,”

“I didn’t, for a while. I wanted you to suffer,” he admits.

“Then what?”

“It stopped being enjoyable.”

She frowns. “That can’t be it,”

He sighs, looking away. “No, not all of it. You’ll find out later. Right now, you should rest.”

It doesn’t look like he’s going to say anything else, and she _is_ tired, so she lets it go. Relaxing, she sinks into the cushions and lets her head fall back on a pillow. So soft, worlds away from the hard floors and edges of her cell. She closes her eyes.

“I do have bedrooms, you know,” he sounds almost amused, and she cracks her eyes back open to look at him. She was right—the barest hint of a smile curves his lips. He masks it a second later.

“This is fine, wonderful really. I won’t leave, if you’re worried about that.” she assures him, and for a single moment she lets the reality of her situation slip away. Then his face darkens and it comes rushing back to her. She tenses, and the Master notices.

His expression softens. “Just sleep, Doctor. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He reaches forward to gently brush her hair out of her face, fingers settling on her temple. A careful touch to her mind, and then—

_Peace._

. . .

When the Doctor wakes, the lights in the console room are dimmed to a soft purple. It’s quiet save for the low hum of the TARDIS. A heavy blanket drapes over her, pooling in her lap as she groggily sits up. Blearily, she looks around to find she’s alone. The pain in her mind isn’t as bad, more of a dull ache, but still a mess.

Unwilling to get up and search for the Master, she tries for a connection.

_Contact._

She feels his attention draw to her, and waits. Within a minute he appears from one of the hallways and comes to sit by her.

“How long was I out?” the Doctor rasps, grimacing at the sound of her voice. Obviously longer than she intended.

“Only a couple days,” he replies, “how do you feel?”

“Better, I suppose,” as she speaks, a sharp lance of pain courses through her head. “Not by much,”

The Master scans her face, eyes dark and serious. She’s about to say something else when he moves closer, sitting at the edge of the sofa where she lies. He reaches for her hands and she cautiously allows him to take them. Lacing their fingers together, he watches her for a reaction, maintaining eye contact. When she doesn’t pull away, he speaks.

“You should stay,” he says quietly, “until you’ve recovered, at least.”

Entranced in his gaze, his request doesn’t immediately process. “You don’t want that,” she finally replies, “you couldn’t, not after—”

“After Gallifrey?” his hands tighten around hers. “I’ve _thought_ about this. Stay with me. If you can bear it,” there’s a slight challenge in the final sentence but otherwise he seems entirely sincere. She can’t help her suspicion.

“Why?”

He tilts his head, “I want you to. I’ll take care of you, until your mind heals. When was the last time someone cared for you, Doctor?”

“My friends did,” she mumbles, and his gaze sharpens.

“They can’t help you with this,” he says, “I can. If you want to leave, I won’t stop you. Just consider it.”

“You won’t... try anything?” it’s a weak summation of every instance of pain he’s inflicted on her, but it’s the best she can manage without inciting conflict.

“I won’t hurt you, if that’s what you mean,”

“Am I just supposed to trust you? After all that’s happened?”

“I’m not expecting your trust,” he admits, “but I have no intention to harm you.”

The Doctor remains silent, letting his words run through her head. She could leave. Go back to her TARDIS, heal her mind and rebuild her defenses. It would be painful, but she could manage as she has in the past. By herself. Alone, like the last four years.

“Okay,” she finally whispers, closing her eyes. “I’ll stay.”

**Author's Note:**

> i might make this into a series if anyone likes this. we'll see!


End file.
